New Zealanders have a funny way of thinking about moving houses. Why move yourself as the house can come to you?
As most of the houses are made from wood, they are easily to transport. It is not uncommon that people look for a piece of land first and then choose the house they want to move. I wonder if they’re able to ship them overseas as well; no more home-sickness for NZ people.
In two weeks time, I encountered two houses ‘on the road’ to their next destination. See below –>
Three weeks later and ten thousand miles away from the little village I visited, the details of my visit to Sahaspur haven’t left my memory yet. Being the first white visitor in fourty years is a special experience which is hard to visualize. Some fragments I captured, some fragments I wish I’d caught.
Coming from the metro stop Kashmere Gate, you’ll walk through an old neighbourhood – once glorious, now dusty and decorated with black staines. With static buildings on your left and right hand, the street lingers further into the city, under bridges, via different street textures such as concrete, asphalt, mud with a mixture of urine, by various housing localities, statues, religious icons and imperial buildings to a train-underpass with on the left side a small yellow kiosk contrasting a light pink wall behind it.
Turning your back to the kiosk provides you the view of a small entrance on your right side, which takes you into a military graveyard. Besides the son of captain Samuel Watson – who died on an early age in 1824 – among other military infants who got burried here, another more apparent and lively space opens up. Trough the decoration of shiny Christmas strings and laundry-items you’ll find kids playing cricket, mothers cooking and elderly people stretching out on their beds outside. This is ‘home’ for at least ten families, who are living with the dead for most of their life time. It flashes through my mind whether the dead prefer to be among dead or living people, but since that question stays unanswered, it leaves my mind quickly.
When I pass the entrance again on my way out, I leave a neighbourhood, not a graveyard.
More information / photos: http://blog.sarako.net/?page_id=13
